“Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm...”
Tarquin was giving the recitation everything he’d got. Katie saw from the programme that the “Address to a Haggis” continued for another six verses. She settled back in her seat.
Earlier, Tarquin had told her that there had been some debate about whether the Burns Night supper should be cancelled, but in the end it was decided to go ahead. Hopefully now that the diagnosis had been confirmed and treatment started, Gemma would soon turn the corner. The dinner was a bigger affair than she had imagined, with outside caterers and a greater degree of formality than she was expecting, even a printed menu and souvenir programme. She was impressed by the extent of the organization that had gone into this.
The event took place in the main hall of the house. The long mahogany table gleamed in the light of candles set in a silver candelabra. The stained-glass panels glowed, the candlelight picking out rich tints of ruby, emerald, and sapphire.
There were about thirty people there. Caspar was at one end of the table and Tarquin at the other. Katie was sitting to Tarquin’s right, with Maddie’s boyfriend Patrick, a shaggy-haired outdoor type, on her other side. She had spotted Bill further down the table. She wondered who had arranged the seating plan. Tarquin, presumably, but whatever, it suited her very well and she intended to take advantage of the occasion to pump him.
The invitation had stipulated evening dress. She had fretted about what to wear in her persona as Caitlin and in the end she had consulted Julia at the detective agency. She had drawn the line at wearing a jumpsuit, which was what Julia had said was “very on-trend”. They had compromised and Katie was wearing chiffon trousers in petrol blue, with a satin stripe down the side and a halter-neck top to match. Julia had rushed them to her by special delivery, along with a pair of what were apparently called sock boots – who knew? They turned out to be a kind of ankle boot with very high spike heels in glittery green. Not for the first time Katie thought, My own mother wouldn’t recognize me, as she examined herself in the mirror.
She had been relieved to see that everyone else was also dressed up to the nines. Tarquin was looking terrific in Scottish evening dress: a kilt and sporran, a black evening jacket and black bow-tie, and knee socks with well-polished black brogues.
They had had drinks in an ante-room and she had allowed herself a whisky. Then the guests had processed into the dining room accompanied by live music played on the bagpipes. Robbie, one of the security guards, glamorous in tartan trews, had been called on to say the traditional Selkirk Grace.
“‘Some hae meat and canna eat,’” he intoned. “‘And some wad eat that want it, but we hae meat and we can eat, sae let the Lord be Thankit.’”
The first course had been cullen skink, a soup of smoked haddock and potatoes, and then they all stood while the haggis, the centrepiece of the supper, was paraded around the hall, followed by the bagpiper playing “A Man’s a Man for A’ That”. She knew it was this because she’d heard Tarquin singing it under his breath. The plangency of the tune, both rousing and mournful, had sent the hairs up on the back of her neck.
She became aware of a sudden movement beside her and looked round to see Tarquin raising a large knife above his head. “‘His knife see rustic Labour dight, An cut you up wi ready slight’,” he declared. There were cheers around the room and the knife flashed down into the haggis. It burst open, spilling the savoury contents of minced lamb’s offal, oatmeal, onion, and spices. Steam rose up and people clapped.
There were still several verses to go, but, at last, it was over and they could actually eat the thing. Waitresses in black with white aprons began serving up haggis with potatoes and mashed swede – or “neeps and tatties” as the menu had it.
Tarquin said, “Caitlin, can I help you to a glass of wine, or are you sticking with Scotch?”
“A glass of red, please,” Katie said, adding to herself, And only a glass or two at the most, more’s the pity. Julia’s advice was ringing in her ears: “Do not, do NOT, I repeat, have too much to drink. That’s when you’ll give yourself away. You’re not there to enjoy yourself. You’re there to do a job of work. On the other hand,” she’d added with a glint in her eye, “I couldn’t possibly advise you to ply anyone with alcohol, but if someone else should choose to have too much to drink, I will just say that people are much more likely to spill the beans when they are under the influence.”
Tarquin was already hitting the whisky pretty hard, Katie noted. On her other side, it had become apparent that she couldn’t expect anything in the way of polite conversation from Patrick. He only had eyes for Maddie. For her part she certainly seemed to have bounced back from her misery of earlier in the day. They began telling each other kilt jokes in cod Scottish accents.
“Tell me, my good man, is anything worn under the kilt?”
“Och, no, madam. It’s all in purr-fect working order.”
They were in fits of giggles. Katie sighed. Tarquin rolled his eyes.
Luckily the woman on Tarquin’s left – one of the secretaries – was also fully engaged with her other neighbour, leaving Tarquin free to be monopolized by Katie. She used the time-honoured technique of making herself agreeable: she asked him about himself. She already knew that he had attended Fettes College, the prestigious Edinburgh boarding school where Tony Blair had been educated, and had gone on to Balliol College, Oxford, but she pretended that she didn’t. Then she went on to ask him about his research, and there she didn’t have to feign interest. She aimed to steer the conversation in the direction of Claudia and her research as soon as she judged that the whisky had kicked in and Tarquin’s tongue was loosened.
But though Tarquin was still putting the whisky away, it seemed to have had little or no impact. He could certainly hold his liquor. And she had reckoned without his good manners. As the haggis plates were cleared away, he said, “But that’s enough about me. What about you, Caitlin?”
“Oh, I’m not very interesting.”
“I’m quite sure that’s not true,” Tarquin said, smiling. “Here, let me pour you some more of this rather splendid Burgundy.”
She shook her head and put her hand over her glass. He would go far. She could imagine him in Caspar’s place, running some prestigious institute in ten or fifteen years. He had the same seemingly effortless ability to manage a conversation and put the other person at ease. She found herself feeling warmed and flattered by his attention, but she couldn’t afford to relax her guard.
The pudding came, listed on the menu as cranachan and described as a mixture of whipped cream, raspberries, honey, toasted oats and, of course, whisky. It was delicious.
“So, where did you work before you came here, Caitlin?” Tarquin asked.
That gave her a jolt and it was a moment or two before she could summon up her story. Thank goodness Julia had based it on Katie’s real-life travels. She was able to give a decent account of her travels in India and Thailand.
“And before that I worked in a lab in Christchurch. I stayed with an old school friend whose family had emigrated to New Zealand.” That last bit was true. She said a silent thank you to Julia for preparing her so meticulously. In fact, she had to stop herself from going into even more detail. To offer too much could be worse than not offering enough, but it was tempting to do that when she had worked so hard to remember everything.
Tarquin took a sip of whisky and Katie caught a whiff of the heady fumes. “Which lab was that?” he asked.
She told him.
“D’you know, I think I know someone there.”
Katie’s heart gave a little jump. Was she going to get caught out?
Tarquin narrowed his eyes, apparently in an effort of recall. Was there something a bit phoney about that?
“Yes,” he went on. “Tom – Tom Mitchell, was it? That’s right. I’m certain. He went there from UCL.”
Katie wracked her brains. “Mitchell... Mitchell,” she said, trying to buying time. She thought she’d memorized the people she was most likely to know, but Tom Mitchell wasn’t one of them. What should she do? Admit that she didn’t know him or pretend that she did?
Tarquin was watching her intently, and suddenly she was sure, quite sure, that there was no Tom Mitchell at the Christchurch lab. Tarquin was trying to catch her out.
She looked into his eyes. He gazed guilelessly back at her. It was like a game of chess.
She made her move. “No, doesn’t ring a bell,” she said. She curbed her impulse to go babbling on, offering suggestions as to why that might be.
“Maybe it was Auckland,” Tarquin said. He tipped his whisky back and forth in the glass and gazed thoughtfully at it. He took a sip. “In fact, now that I think about it, I’m sure it was.”
Katie got the impression that she’d narrowly avoided checkmate. It was time to change the subject.
“I see that Claudia isn’t here,” she remarked.
“Well, no, she didn’t buy a ticket. Claudia and I don’t exactly see eye to eye,” he admitted. “D’you know the old joke?”
She shook her head.
Tarquin gave what could only be described as a cackle. “I knew a girl who made you feel that the skies were going grey whenever you were with her. That’s the reason I stopped courting Claudia! Not, of course, that I ever started courting her, you understand. Not my style at all, as I expect you’ve realized.”
For the first time she detected a slight slur in his voice. But she also became aware that a strange silence had settled over the table. She looked round. One or two people were looking at their phones and conferring in low voices. Others were getting out phones or scrolling down screens. Something was up.
Then Caspar was on his feet and someone was tapping a wine glass to get everyone’s attention. Conversation ceased completely. Even Maddie and Patrick emerged from their loved-up huddle and looked towards the end of the table.
When Caspar spoke, his voice was sombre. “I am sorry to interrupt the festivities, but I see that some of you are already aware of thedesperately sad news we have just received, and it would not be right to continue. I have just been informed that our friend and colleague, Professor Gemma Braithwaite, died two hours ago in Barnstaple Hospital.”